


Five Nights in Istanbul

by velveteenshadowboxer



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Humor, Awkward Flirting, Consent Issues, M/M, Sexual Tension, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3407696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velveteenshadowboxer/pseuds/velveteenshadowboxer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some boundaries, he tells himself reluctantly, are established for a reason. </p><p>So he accepts that the affections are there, that the lust is there. But he’s not going to do a damn thing about it. And no amount of good-natured mockery from Merlin or anyone else is going to sway him.</p><p>Really. </p><p>(Or: the one in which Harry and Eggsy flirt a lot, fall in love, and do lots of sexy/violent spy stuff along the way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Nights in Istanbul

Harry doesn’t die.

He wakes instead under the glare of florescent lights, caught in the grasp of derealization. Blurred figures distorted past the point of recognition, his own identity fragmented and shapeless, synapses firing in his brain and dazzling him with visions of fantastical structures beyond imagination and symbolic beings dancing in and out of the very fabric of reality.

The fuzziness in his head eventually does dissipate, and he becomes distantly aware of the light press of warm fingers against his wrist. Not holding his hand, quite, but it’s a near thing. And then everything else starts to feel clearer.

He blinks, and like the flick of a switch, it all comes rushing back. The church, Valentine, and the sharp burst of agony as the bullet tore through his temple.

He swallows thickly, wincing at the harsh dryness of his throat. Looks up as a pair of bright eyes swim into focus above, gazing down at him with a sort of cautious hopefulness.

Harry coughs, feels his mouth twitching up at the sides. “I suppose I ought to take the opportunity to apologize for how our last conversation concluded,” he says wryly. “I behaved rather badly, I’m afraid.”

Eggsy barks out a short laugh, an expression of relief washing over his face, eyes crinkling with happiness. He reigns it, though, and plays along with the tone. “Nonsense, the fault is mine. If I’d known refusing to shoot a dog would set off a chain reaction leading to you going full Rambo on a church full of psychopaths and nearly getting your fool head blown clean off, I’d have done him in straight away.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound, and a somber mood takes hold as his recollection catches up to his current state. He lifts a hand hesitantly to his temple, winces at the sharp pain elicited by the touch. “I suspect I’m quite lucky to be alive?” he says, looking to Eggsy for confirmation.

The boy’s smile fades briefly, his eyes dimming into faraway, haunted reflectiveness. He snaps out of it a second later and withdraws his hand from over Harry’s — which, incidentally, he’d all but forgotten was there at all. “Oh, we all thought you were done for, mate,” he says with a cheekiness colored by its subdued undertone. “Watching that video feed . . .” He trails off, shakes his head as if clearing his mind of the image.

Harry shifts under the cover of the hospital blankets. “Yes, I would imagine.”

Eggsy glances at him, then away at the wall, staring interestedly at a spot there. “Merlin was the one who figured out you were still kicking, of course,” he continues casually. “Came to see you were looked after proper, once we sorted out that business with Valentine.” His lip curls, disdainful and satisfied. “I can tell you about it later, when you’re up for it, but I’ll forewarn you; the way I see it, he got off rather easy in the end.”

“Yes, well . . .” Harry closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as the morphine begins to kick in strong, wooziness in full effect. “At least it’s done with.”

Eggsy looks at him straight on, smiles again, with that same easy youthful gentleness that Harry first noticed in him in the underground bunker at the tailor’s whilst looking over the weaponry and gadgets; the very quality he’d unintentionally cheapened and tried to suppress in their last encounter.

“You’ll have a bit of scarring here, almost certainly,” the boy says, making a slashing gesture with his forefinger against the side of his own head. “But it’s really not that bad, I promise. You’ll look your usual posh self in no time, I guarantee.”

“Well, thank God for that,” Harry says flatly. Eggsy breaks out into a full on grin, and Harry’s final delirium-inspired thought before drifting back into unconsciousness is that he’d very much enjoy seeing that look again.

*****

He doesn’t reclaim the title of Galahad, in spite of Eggy’s protests.

“It’s yours now,” he insists. “It would be in poor taste to take it back.”

“But, Harry, you’re _not dead_ ,” Eggsy states emphatically, scowling at him. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, we’ve already got Merlin taking over for Arthur and refusing to change his codename. Which, by the way, makes the whole Knights of the Round Table metaphor entirely pointless.”

Harry blinks at him, a strangled half-amused, half choking sound bubbling up inside his throat. He catches Merlin’s gaze over Eggy’s shoulder, bites his lip to hold in a laugh when the other man just rolls his eyes and returns to his keypad.

“More to the point,” Eggsy proceeds undeterred, “what the hell are we even supposed to call you now?”

Harry chuckles, fondly exasperated. “There are more than two Knights, Eggsy,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Bedivere?” Roxy suggests, shrugging when Harry and Eggsy turn to face her.

“No, we already have one of those,” Harry says.

Eggsy huffs, folding his arms across his chest. “Gawain?” he says, grudgingly acquiescing to the premise of the conversation.

“Also taken,” Merlin says without looking up from the console.

Eggy’s eyes narrow. “Mordred?” he says churlishly.

Roxy sighs, and Harry snorts in amusement.

“Tristan?” Harry says after another half-minute’s consideration.

Eggsy chews on his lower lip — which Harry most certainly does not find distracting in the slightest — and eventually seems to arrive at some sort of acceptance, shrugging and saying, “It’s alright, I guess.”

“Glad that’s settled,” Merlin mutters.

Harry laughs, pats Eggsy on the shoulder and smiles at the way the younger agent relaxes at the touch. Merlin lifts an eyebrow and shoots Harry a mildly suspicious and curious look, but says nothing.

*****

Harry stands in front of the mirror in the washroom, gingerly tracing his thumb along the jagged scar across the side of his face. It has, as Eggsy predicted, healed up quite well. A mere month’s time past the incident, and apart from some residual soreness where the surgeons had restructure the impact point in his skull, he looks very nearly as good as new.

“Hypothetically,” he begins as he returns to the lounge and pours himself a glass of Scotch, sitting down with a harsh exhale in the cushioned chair opposite Merlin, “if I were to bring up the prospect of retirement, how would you be inclined to respond?”

Merlin doesn’t even blink, idly swirling the ice cubes around in his own tumbler. “Would you prefer my first instinctive, responsibly measured answer, or a disproportionately overdramatic tirade?” He takes a sip from the glass, meeting Harry’s eyes over the rim. “Thought I’d ask, given your fondness for the theatrical.”

Harry quirks a small smile, absentmindedly sliding his left foot in and out of his slipper. “The tirade first, if you please. And then on to the level-headed business. Entertainment up front, save the somber bits for after.”

Merlin snorts, drains the last of his tumbler. He clears his throat. “Well then, I’d say you’re fucking mental for even suggesting it. That it’s one of the stupidest things you’ve ever said, and that there’s not a bloody chance in hell you’ll actually go through with it. Can you honestly tell me you’d be happy tottering around your house in a bathrobe, or lounging around on a beach somewhere, for the entire second half of your life? I mean, Christ almighty, Harry, can you even _remember_ the last time you took a vacation? You live for this shit, and making out like you’re giving any serious thought to calling it quits is disingenuous at best, flat out delusional at worst.”

“Mmm.” Harry scratches his chin, taps his fingers against the side of his glass. “A bit underwhelming. Not a top five rant, I’m afraid.”

Merlin grins, shifting slightly in his chair. “Cheeky fucker.” He reaches for the bottle. His smile dims a bit, expression turning serious again. “But on the level?”

Harry gestures vaguely. “Go on.”

“You suffered a terrible trauma. Not just the bullet to the head, but . . . the rest, as well.”

Harry’s slide closed for a brief moment, visions of the massacre rushing back in sudden waves crashing over him with ugly vividness. The blood, the rage, the startling violence enacted by his own hands — control of not just his body, but his mind, ripped away in a matter of an instant. takes a long drink, opens his eyes again. “Yes, I suppose.”

Merlin hums dissentingly, shakes his head. “No. No supposing. What you experienced — that would be enough to break even the best of us. And I will fully understand if you truly need to do something else with your life.”

They both sit in silence for a full minute before Harry replies. “No, you’re right.” He exhales deeply, takes off his glasses to set by the lamp on the table next to the chair. His mouth twitches. “And you’re right, I have no intention of stopping. Just feeling a bit reflective and existential at the moment. Call it a midlife crisis. Thank you for indulging me.”

Merlin smiles and settles back in his seat. “You’re welcome.”

They both sit back and gaze at the fireplace, watching the little tendrils of flame twist and crackle, licking at the charred logs. It ought to be soothing, but it puts Harry on edge, takes him too closely back to a mindset of death and destruction. He sucks on the inside of his cheek, then stops with a little huff, placing the Scotch aside and pushing the glass out of easy reach.

“Not to mention, you seem to have acquired a new incentive for staying involved,” Merlin pipes up suddenly, apropos of nothing.

Harry turns to look at him, frowns. “Come again?”

Merlin shrugs, not quite meeting his eye; but there’s a sly little smile teasing at the corners of his lips that makes Harry wary. “Truth be told, I’m not entirely sure if it _is_ new, or if I simply didn’t notice before. But in any case, it’s really none of my business. Which is another way of saying I’ll be watching everything unfold with bated breath, relishing in each deliciously agonizing moment of awkward flirtation.”

“You know, I enjoy a good enigmatic ribbing as much as the next man, but there is a point where amusement inevitably turns to exasperation,” Harry says lightly, calm expression belying the encroaching recognition and embarrassment he feels bubbling up inside.

Merlin, the bastard, just sits there grinning like a loon, playing with his glass with an air of cheerful smugness. “I wouldn’t fret too much, old friend,” he says, folding his legs as he adjusts his position in the cushioned chair. “It’s honestly not that scandalous, comparative to the shit you and I have seen over the years.” He pauses to enjoy Harry’s discomfort, hiding a snort behind a sip of whisky. “Besides, he _is_ very pretty. And I say that with an unblemished record of staunch heterosexuality.”

Harry groans and buries his face in his hands. “I don’t quite recognize that reference, but it strikes me as very ‘American sitcom.’ Bad form,” he says between his fingers, silently praying that his flimsy attempt to steer the conversation into new waters is greeted with mercy.

Merlin just laughs.

*****

His feelings, he will forever be insisting to himself, are a new development. That is absolutely vital.

Because the alternative is repugnant to him. Because if they are _not_ new, then that means he is not the man he has always believed himself to be. That means he is the sort of man who swooped in to rescue a former protégé’s child from imprisonment and whisked him away to a life of high-stakes espionage with the underlying intent of seduction. That means he wanted Eggsy from the moment he laid eyes on him, and that those feelings influenced every decision he made in regards to the boy thereafter.

And Harry is most adamantly  _not_ that man.

He’s a gentleman. And not the bastardized version of that ideal, worn down through generations of corruption and self-aggrandizement and general misogyny, turned into a laughably antiquated notion. No, he has always strived for something greater, something good. It doesn’t matter that, even past the milestone of age 50, he’s still retained his good looks and physicality and charm; he still has no intention of turning into one of those skeevy old men who chases after 20-year-olds, regardless of gender.

Oddly enough, that — the question of gender and sexuality and such — is the one aspect of the the entire situation that he doesn’t find particularly bothersome. While it’s true that, despite his long history of uninhibited curiosity and adventurousness, he never found himself drawn to another man (or to someone so drastically younger than him) before, he’s not really perturbed by that individual factor. When one has seen and experienced the sorts of things he has in his rather eventful life, one tends to see more clearly through the illusory boundaries and made-up rules that people use to confine their own identities. Harry recognizes himself as, and prides himself in being, a fluid human person, content to be whomever he wishes to be at any given moment.

Still though. The kid is barely out of his teens, really only starting to glimpse his first true blush of adulthood. For every stirring of interest and pang of longing Harry experiences, gazing surreptitiously at his young apprentice in those moments he feels confident and secure enough to look unnoticed, he is also onset with a small wave of nausea; a queasy shame and self-reproach for daring to look in the first place.

Some boundaries, he tells himself reluctantly, are established for a reason.

So he accepts that the affections are there, that the lust is there. But he’s not going to do a damn thing about it. And no amount of good-natured mockery from Merlin or anyone else is going to sway him.

Really.

*****

“Another pint, please!” Eggsy warbles cheerfully, hiccuping around the last syllable. He smiles dopily up at the pretty blonde bartender. “The lager, love,” he says, pointing.

She frowns at him, face pinching up around the mouth and eyes as she snatches up the empty glass in front of him. “I’m not your love, _sweetheart_.”

“Apologies!” Eggsy calls after her as she walks off in a huff. “Didn’t mean it to be sexist or nothing.” He swivels around on his stool and grins sheepishly across the crowded room at Harry before spinning back towards the bar. “Not getting any action tonight, am I?” his voice crackles in the older man’s earpiece.

Harry leans casually against the tall wooden support pillar in the center of the throng of Friday night party people, pretending to take a sip from his own glass as he replies, “Not with her, I’d wager.” Feigning a little neck stretch, he scans the upper level for their target, quickly locking on to him hanging round the banister-side table. “At your 6, Lancelot.” Then, directed at Eggsy, “Don’t drink too much. We’re here to work, remember.”

“Please, it’s pale ale,” Eggsy scoffs.

“Noted,” Roxy’s voice comes over the com. “And for the record, Galahad, if you get right pissed and start falling all over the place, _again_ , I am most certainly not going to be the one carrying you out of here. Clear?”

Harry frowns, briefly glancing up towards where Roxy is seated at a little corner booth a ways across from the target. “What?” he says, momentarily disoriented. “I’ve barely had any.”

Eggsy snorts. “I believe she means me, _Tristan_ ,” he drawls, smug as all get out. “Or have you forgotten already?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry murmurs.

“Also, hold it. Lancelot, what do you mean, _again_?” Eggsy says indignantly, his voice cringe-inducingly loud over the mic. When Harry glances over at him, he’s relieved to see him scowling down at his fresh pint, and thankfully not directly up at Roxy and blowing the whole fucking operation. “That was off duty!”

“Maybe for you, but I was on babysitting duty the rest of the bloody night,” Roxy fires back, quick as a whip.

“Will all of you kindly shut the fuck up and pay attention to the task at hand?” Merlin snaps over the com, startling all three of them. “Lancelot, you have the clear to intercept the intel.”

“Right,” Roxy mutters and slips out of the booth, out of Harry’s line of sight.

Silence for a moment.

“Not with her, eh?” Eggsy says.

It takes Harry a moment. He blinks, looks over to see Eggsy very pointedly not looking in his direction, which somehow makes it even more obvious that the comment is for him. “Pardon?” Harry says, turning his head to examine a large framed mural on the side wall by the staircase.

“You don’t reckon I’ll be getting any action with her. The barkeep.” A short pause. “Do you suppose I might have a bit better luck elsewhere?”

His voice is sly, and for all Harry’s experience, he somehow feels as though he has no frame of reference for handling this exact moment. “Er . . .” he says, immediately wanting to kick himself. He clears his throat. More smoothly, “If I were a betting man, I wouldn’t underestimate your chances with that streetwalker, Kirstie, whom we encountered earlier this evening. She seemed somewhat taken with your chosen style of purposely slovenly attire.”

Eggsy adjusts his cap, grinning. “I dunno. I thought she had the look of a bird more keen on the posh, stick-up-the-arse sorts. A bit of a daddy complex, maybe?”

Harry is perversely amused, in spite of the voice in his head chiding him for twisting their banter into a flirtatious bent. “Daddy?” he says mildly.

Eggsy huffs, and Harry looks in time to see the twitch of his broad shoulders shrugging up and down. “Yes, well-”

“God, it’s like prep school all over again,” Merlin grumbles over the mic. “Absolutely fucking juvenile.”

“Sorry,” both Harry and Eggsy say in unison.

“I’ve got the intel,” Roxy says, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry watches as she descends the stairs, slipping something small and metallic under into her handbag as she rounds the turn and vanishes through the back door.

“Right then.” He takes one last taste from his glass before setting it on a nearby table and spinning on his heel. “Galahad, hang back a minute, keep an eye on our mutual friend, won’t you? See that we get away clean before he notices it’s gone.”

As he passes the bar, Eggsy doesn’t look at him, but does raise his glass in a little salute. “Cheers.”

Harry exits through the front door and opens up his umbrella as he steps out into the rain and walks away down the darkened alley to the right of the building.

*****

It’s three hours after that and freezing out when Eggsy shows up on his doorstep, dripping wet from the rain and sporting a puke stain on the front of shirt.

“I was expecting you to check in earlier,” Harry says, instead of something utterly humiliating. Like, _I was worried_.

Eggsy enters without further invitation, running his fingers through his wet hair. “Hung around for bit, like you said, then popped in to check on my mum and Gracie.” He gestures to the stain. “I’ve been there since, and now I’m here.”

They exit the foyer and go into the lounge. “The intel checked out about how we anticipated,” Harry says, coming to stand behind the armchair and clasping his hands together on top of it. “We’ll be shipping out to Istanbul in two days’ time.”

Eggsy nods tiredly, then grimaces at the small puddle of water dripping from his clothing onto the carpet. “I’m sorry.” He steps off of the carpet and onto the wooden floorboards. He looks up at Harry, rueful. “Towel?”

Harry waves him down the hall. “Last door on the right. And a change of clothes across the hall when you’re dry.”

“But you wouldn’t have anything in my size, would you?” Eggsy calls over his shoulder, frowning slightly as he disappears around the corner, and Harry is immediately grateful that the boy is unable to see his look of embarrassment.

“I bought you some clothes,” he says, wincing at himself. “For the mission. They’re on the bed.”

There’s a long, painfully drawn-out pause, and then a short little laugh. “You bought me some clothes?” Eggsy says incredulously, sounding equal parts bewildered and delighted.

Harry closes his eyes, massaging his temples. “Dashing as it may look, a gentleman should not restrict himself to a single tailored suit, Galahad. Flash is all good and well in the appropriate circumstances, but our work occasionally requires a . . . subtler hand.”

Eggsy emerges some several minutes later, and Harry’s breathing stutters a little. The younger man is dressed in dark black Henley, top button undone so that the collar curls teasingly to expose a sliver of bare chest, the fabric snug across his torso and accentuating nearly every curve of muscle, particularly around the arms. Grayish jeans, slightly frayed, perfectly fit. Black combat boots.

His hair, dry now, is buzzed shorter along the sides and fluffed up slightly around the top in gentle tufts that Harry imagines would be soft to the touch. It takes a disturbing amount of willpower not to reach out and feel.

There’s a faint shadow of stubble as well, as if maybe it’s been a couple of days since Eggsy has shaved. There’s a spot, a sharp angular curve along the jawline, that Harry wants to bite, to suck a bruise, to leave his mark.

Eggsy’s eyebrows are beginning to furrow, and Harry realizes suddenly that they’ve just been standing there staring at each other for a solid half-minute. “Is it alright, you think?” Eggsy says, looking uncertain and . . . something else that Harry can’t quite identify.

“Yes,” he says, not immediately trusting his voice to sound steady with a longer response. He coughs awkwardly, scratches at the back of his head, eyes flickering down to the floor. “Just what I had in mind.” Then, figuring it best not to leave room for ambiguity, “For the mission. Not too elegant, and a significant improvement on your normal, er . . . dressed-down aesthetic. This shouldn’t drawn any unwanted attention.”

Eggsy smiles softly — _shyly_ , almost — and _fuck_. Harry’s immediate, involuntary reaction is to think, _I could get used to that_. Which is so far outside the realm of acceptability, for so many reasons.

“I’ve been looking forward to working with you proper,” Eggsy blurts out after another brief pause, then bites his lip, looking chagrined. “I mean, we never really got the chance to before. Not really.”

Harry hesitates, nods slowly. “Yes.” He clears his throat. “It’s a shame I was out of action for the resolution of your last endeavor. I, too, am eager as well to witness firsthand the results of all your hard work and training.”

Eggsy preens a little, grinning as he walks past Harry and enters the kitchen through the dining room. “Yeah, we’ll see if you can keep up with me, old sport,” he says, rooting around in the refrigerator.

Harry huffs out a short laugh. “Watch your tongue. And never underestimate your elders, lest you’re willing to run the risk of them surprising you.”

Eggsy returns with a little cup of water, drains it two quick gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows. He licks his lips, shrugs. “True. I’ve seen your inner badass unleashed enough times to know that.” His eyes flick up, meet Harry’s. “And you’re not that old.”

They stare at each other.

Harry knows — he _knows_ — better than to read too much into it, to project his own wishes and desires onto this conversation, to deliberately interpret an instance of human connection as a “charged moment.” He tears his gaze away first, looking away down the hall to the study where his sweet dead dog is mounted on top of its perch.

“You’re welcome to rest the night,” he says eventually. “There is a guest room up and to the left.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Eggsy says quietly, and ascends the stairs, the dull thump of his boots tapping on the hardwood as he goes.

When the door up above snaps softly shut, Harry lets out a deep sigh and sits heavily in the armchair. And because he’s not entirely pathetic, he settles for staring broodingly at the unlit fireplace for a solid ten minutes before going to bed, instead of retreating to the liquor cabinet and going for another round.

*****

“You didn’t knock,” Merlin says mildly, without looking up from his computer, as Harry enters his office.

“I did not,” Harry agrees.

Merlin sighs and removes his glasses with one hand, rests his forehead in the palm of the other. “You know, in spite of him turning out to be a treacherous little cretin, I can’t help but feel a mite sorry for Arthur,” he says, gesturing disgustedly to the formidable mound of paperwork spread across his desk.

Harry arches an eyebrow, delicately inspecting his cufflinks. “Well,” he says, keeping a straight face, “I’d offer my condolences, but you _did_ bring this on yourself, accepting the job.”

Merlin looks up at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he says flatly. “The sight of me buried behind a fucking mountain of bureaucratic bullshit. Wading through an ocean of political jargon, and tax returns, and all manner of gobbledygook.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry says innocently. “I never take pleasure in the misery of my friends.”

Merlin snatches up a page from the pile and wads it up, throws it at his face. “Git.”

Harry chuckles. He leans in the doorframe, crosses his arms over his chest. “We’re set to leave in five hours,” he says.

Merlin looks wholly unimpressed. “I’m aware,” he says.

Harry scratches his cheek, glances around at the framed portraits adorning the walls, at the dusty volumes lining the bookshelves; anywhere but Merlin’s eyes. “The three of us, for our mission.”

Merlin nods once. “Yes.”

Harry chews on his lower lip. “For five days. Together, in close quarters.”

Merlin stares at the ceiling as though he’s desperately praying for a bolt of lightning to strike him dead. “Look, I’m not playing _Guess What I’m Thinking_ with you. Spit it out.”

Harry sighs. “I just . . . tell me to be strong.” He quirks a half smile, deeply self-deprecating.

Merlin’s expression softens. He taps his pen against the edge of his desk thoughtfully. “Is this about Kentucky, or . . .?”

“Either. Both.” Harry shrugs. “Take your pick.”

Merlin straightens in his chair, looks at him straight on. “Harry, you’re a God damn Kingsman. You’re going to be fine.”

The tension in Harry’s shoulders relaxes minutely. “If you say so.”

Merlin nods, satisfied. “Alright then. Go give them hell.”

Harry smiles and offers a semi-sincere salute before ducking out. As he walks off down the hall, he can hear Merlin swearing and tossing a stack of forms against the wall, sending the pages flying all over the place.

*****

They arrive just after dark, dropped off the coast by helicopter and come ashore via the prepared fishing vessel. They walk together along the beach, and then split up to make their way to the hotel separately.

Harry gathers his coat tightly around himself, breath coming out in visible wisps of vapor in the cold as he makes his way up the winding narrow streets between the seaside buildings. He hears music playing from an upstairs window somewhere up ahead of him on the adjacent road, and a dog is growling and barking behind a rotted fence as he passes.

An hour later, they’re met at the rendezvous point and checking in under their false passports’ aliases.

“Any trouble?” Harry murmurs as the clerk goes to the back office to get their keys.

Roxy shakes her head, glancing around. “No, I don’t think so. Thought I had a tail for a minute after we split, but I doubled back around to check, and it was just a local. So I think we’re clear.” Her hands, rested on the counter, are shaking slightly from adrenaline.

“No issues here either,” Eggsy says, cupping his hands around his mouth and blowing into them, rubbing them together to warm them.

Harry hums. “Alright then.”

The clerk returns with their keys, and they take the elevator together. Roxy gets off on 3 with a jerky little nod. Harry and Eggsy exit on 5.

The room’s walls are narrow and it is dimly lit, with two beds (Harry thanks the universe for small favors) and an adjacent bathroom that looks like it hasn’t been properly cleaned in at least several days.

Eggsy starts unloading everything straight away, assembling the sniper rifle with impressive speed and precision. He grins up at Harry, and fucking _winks_. “This’ll be fun, eh?” he says.

“Perhaps it will,” Harry replies, and a tiny part of him even believes it.


End file.
